


Wounds of the Heart

by NoShabbyTigers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Issues, Gun Violence, Memories, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:30:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoShabbyTigers/pseuds/NoShabbyTigers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many ways to hurt and be hurt and the Holmes brothers knew them all. Sherlock had pushed his brother away but Mycroft had been there for him no matter the cost. Now Mycroft was severely injured and Sherlock needed all of his friends to help him find the answers, track down the perps and come to terms with his feelings for his brother. Molly would help. She always helped, even when when it cost her far more than she deserved to pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another good start with a long way to go. I have an outline and hope to weave a long and complex story revolving around the complicated relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft. Tossed in the mix will be a chase to the continent, Holmes family memories, an inter-play of friendship and eventual romance and the deep need of all of these disparate characters for each other. Should be a fun ride.
> 
> Love these characters, love the talent of Moffat and Gatiss. Thanks for the opportunity to take a broader look into their lives.

Wounds of the Heart

_“Injuries may be forgiven, but not forgotten.”_

Aesop

 

Chapter 1

It had happened so fast that even Sherlock could not process it. He had looked into his brother’s eyes and seen fear and then resolve. He understood instantly, no words necessary, what would happen next. His mind cried out in alarm, Mycroft stepped in front of him, there were shots, there was pain and Mycroft fell.

A rage so vast and hot filled his consciousness that he did not hear the report of his own gun and barely felt the warm blood running down his arm. He dropped his weapon, knelt on the worn wooden floor and ignoring the crash of the doors being flung open and the cries of the responding officers, he took Mycroft’s head into his hands. Two wounds, both bleeding heavily and a bad blow to the side of the skull – not good.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and Lestrade gently pulled Sherlock back to allow his people to stabilize Mycroft. Why? Why had he allowed Mycroft to come with him? Why? His only brother, his bane and his savior lay on the floor of a seedy warehouse, his life spilling out of him. It could not end like this – it could not. He heard the wail of an ambulance in the distance. Oh thank god, there might still be a chance.

Sherlock wanted one more minute, one more hour, one more day, to make up for everything that had gone before. Live, you controlling bastard, live, Sherlock thought as the first responders took hold of him, laid him out, cut his shirt away and applied hard pressure to his shoulder wound to stem the bleeding. He lay on the dirty wooden floor and stared into Mycroft’s pale and unresponsive face and then the pain and stress and guilt were too much for him and he faded away.

******

It was well after midnight and Molly was terrified as she watched the dark streets of London flash by through the rain. Her heart was racing and her stomach roiled against the take out she had eaten just a few short hours earlier. She sat in the back of a cab racing towards Bart’s and worried her hands in her lap, hoping against hope that he was going to be all right. She had received a call from Greg Lestrade just twenty minutes before which had shaken her to the core. Sherlock had been on a sting operation to glean information on an international drug smuggling cartel and things had gone very wrong.  

Must maintain control, she thought as she closed her eyes and fought down panic. Greg had been rushed and somewhat incoherent on his mobile and after he said Bart’s and Sherlock’s name she had caught the words “two shot”, “critical” and “bugger all” but not much else. She had just gotten out of the shower and was still dripping. He asked to her to come and come quickly as Sherlock was asking for her and so she had hastily dried off, thrown on some fresh clothes, quickly braided her still wet hair and called a cab.

The cab had barely stopped when she leapt out, tossing some notes to the driver not waiting for change. She swept through the critical care doors flashing her employee ID at security as she struggled to control her features and tamp down the urge to run.  She could feel the fear crawling up her spine and her inner voice shrieking at her to hurry, that Sherlock was hurt and he needed her. Oh why did he take such risks? Was John hurt too? She would give Greg Lestrade a piece of her mind when she saw him for his crap communication skills.

She dashed around the last corner and saw Greg and another man standing outside of the critical care doors. They were flanked by two armed men guarding the doors who instantly were on high alert as soon a she appeared. Greg blocked her view of the other man but as he turned towards her, relief evident on his face, she saw Sherlock standing next to him, his arm wrapped and resting in a sling. Greg signaled the guards to stand down.

She felt a wave of relief. Sherlock was ghost white, vibrating with tension and he looked as if he had been weeping but he was upright and still breathing. He was wearing black jeans and little else except an expanse of white dressings under a black leather coat; his usually clean shaven face was covered with uneven stubble. Oh god, was John dead?  Molly felt her heart constrict as she approached the pair.

Sherlock’s eyes locked onto hers and he bolted forward, clumsily pulling her into a tight embrace with his good arm. Shocked by his show of emotionality, she stiffened in surprise. He buried his head into her hair and she could hear his quick breaths and feel his rapid heartbeat. She willed herself to relax, slipped her arms around him and held him gently.

“Oh Sherlock, is it John? Is he badly hurt?”

He pulled back just far enough to look down into her face and she could see how upset he was by his red rimmed eyes and bleak expression. He shook his head, his voice tight with emotion. “Not John, Mycroft…They surprised us and he stepped out in front of me to give me time to take them out. They shot him but only grazed me. The stupid fool took two bullets for me. I killed them both but what does that matter? Oh Molly, he can’t die. My brother can’t die…”  He shuddered and pulled her to him again.

Molly looked over his shoulder to Greg who still stood by the double doors. Her eyes asked the question and his answered. Mycroft had been badly hurt and it did not look good.  Molly stroked Sherlock’s hair and held him as he wept. She had briefly met his older brother in the lab but knew nothing of their relationship except that it seemed strained at best and antagonistic at worst. Mycroft was cool and polite but had looked right through Molly as if she wasn’t there. She hadn’t liked him much but then again less than five minutes in the middle of night over a mangled corpse wasn’t the best way to meet new people. Whatever their relationship, Sherlock was in pain and she would do whatever she could to help the both of them.

******

Hours had passed and Mycroft had still not come out of surgery.  Sherlock had been more badly hurt than it had first appeared with one bullet through the arm and another through the shoulder. Grazed my ass, she thought. No bones had been hit but muscles had been torn and many stitches had been required to put him back together. Critical care staff had given him a shot for the pain after he stubbornly refused hospitalization. He also had been issued some strong pain killers which Molly had pocketed. She was sure he would need at least one before the night was fully over. He was dozing now, his head in her lap while they waited for news in a semi-private waiting area. His face was pale, but peaceful, and she gently stroked his hair while he slept. She was happy to be so close to him but knew it was only temporary. He would push her away again as soon as things resolved themselves, for either good or ill. Greg slept nearby upright in a chair.

Molly’s eyes felt grainy as she watched first light come up through the windows. She was exhausted and would need a serious shot of coffee soon. The rain had stopped and the skies had cleared. She would have to call in sick to work as she didn’t know when she might be able to leave. They had not heard anything from staff for over two hours and she wanted to be there for Sherlock when Mycroft came out of surgery.

Greg had told her about the sting after Sherlock had gone to sleep. Sherlock had been working with the Yard to set it up, John Watson had been called out of town on a family emergency and Mycroft had somehow found out about the operation and stepped forward to assist his brother. He was not well known outside of the upper spheres of the British government and though he abhorred field work, he had insisted that Sherlock not go alone. Sherlock had been surly and resentful of Mycroft’s presence but he eventually admitted to himself he had to have backup and so had relented though not very graciously.

Sherlock and Mycroft had been posing as drug distributers looking to form a business relationship with the cartel. The brothers had bickered right up to the point of deployment when a dead silence fell as they assumed their characters.  They were both heavily disguised, Mycroft was wired and Greg and several other Yard staff were monitoring the meeting from a panel van less than a block distant from the rendezvous point, a seedy warehouse in Chatham.

Things went south almost immediately when one of the two men meeting them recognized Sherlock in spite of his disguise. Guns were pulled, shots rang out and when Greg and his people burst in just minutes after the shooting started. Mycroft was down, the two smugglers were dead and Sherlock, pale and bleeding, was cradling his brother’s head in his hands.  Greg’s team had tried to stabilize the two brothers but couldn’t do much with their limited resources. Emergency services had been called and were there in minutes, loading them into an ambulance. Greg had followed close behind, had called Molly and she knew the rest of the story.

“Mycroft must have seen it coming and stepped between the perps and Sherlock. He took two bullets; one in the chest and one in the thigh. He went down pretty hard and he had struck his head on a pallet of metal as well. The chest wound appeared to be the most serious and one of his lungs may have collapsed. He was unconscious, having trouble breathing and was bleeding heavily when they loaded him into the ambulance.” Greg’s voice was strained. “Why did I get Sherlock involved? I could’ve found some unknown officers from the ranks but no, I had to use my magic bullet. Too eager by half and now I have the shadow behind the British government in critical care and the PM on my ass. The bastard had better not die or my career is well and truly buggered.”

Molly shook her head. “You did what you thought was right and both Sherlock and Mycroft knew the risks. Don’t blame yourself for trying to do your job well and wanting the best.” She glanced down at the pale face in her lap before coming back to the matter at hand. “I am just worried about Sherlock. He loves his brother though you wouldn’t know it by the way they natter at each other.”  Molly paused and her eyes went wide. “Good lord, has anyone called their parents?”

A deep voice spoke from her lap. “No, and no one will until Mycroft comes out of surgery. I will call them when I feel it necessary and not before. They are abroad, will be back in several days and unless Mycroft dies or cannot fully recover they are not to be bothered.” Sherlock’s eyes opened as he spoke. His voice was rough but steady as he sat up, removing his head from Molly’s lap. Molly stretched and rose, stiff from sitting quietly for so long. She looked at him for a long moment and nodded.

“So, who wants coffee?  I want coffee.” Greg raised his hand from where he sat slumped in his chair. Man, he looked rough and older than he had in years. She then looked closely at Sherlock, professionally assessing his condition. “How long has it been since you have eaten anything? I will make a run down to the cafeteria for coffee and Danish as you are about due for pain pill and can’t take it on an empty stomach.”

“Fine, whatever you think.” He said abruptly, getting to his feet and starting to pace. “Where the hell are the doctors? It’s been three hours since the last update” He ran his one good hand through his hair and huffed with frustration. “I am going mad with waiting…”

As if on cue, the double doors opened and a man in surgical gown & mask came out. His eyes looked grave but calm and Molly could not read the unstated message in them. “Are you the Holmes family?”

Sherlock was instantly laser focused. “Yes, we are the Holmes family. How is my brother? Can we see him?” Molly joined Sherlock, grasped his good arm in solidarity and was relieved when he didn’t instantly throw it off. Sherlock was starting to look even more haggard and she was sure the effects of the first pain shot were quickly wearing off. She had to get some food into him before she gave him a pain pill.

The doctor looked around the hall, his exhaustion after a long surgery evident in his grey face. “He is alive but just barely. We shouldn’t talk here. There is a private room just down the hall to your right. Give me a fifteen minutes and I will join you down there.”

Molly squeezed Sherlock’s arm once more and then instantly became efficient. “I will dash down for coffees and Danish. Be back in a tic.” She looked intently at Greg and jerked her head towards the consulting room down the hall. “Sherlock” she said, “Why don’t you and Greg wait in the consulting room while I run downstairs? I will just be a few minutes.”

Sherlock barely looked at her, his mind evidently racing as he struggled with facing the news to come. “Fine, fine, fine…  Just hurry as I want you there when the doctor returns. I need someone sane to decipher what I might not be able to understand. Oh why did John have to be called out of town? My head is not working properly and I feel wretched.”

Molly once again touched his arm and captured his eyes with hers. “Don’t worry, just go with Greg and I will be right back. You’ve been shot, you’re in pain and we are not going anywhere.”

Sherlock nodded at her wearily, turned and he and Greg walked slowly down the hall and into the consulting room.  Molly dashed down the hall and called the lift to take her to the basement. She entered and leaned against the cool steel walls as the doors closed and the lift start to descend. She was exhausted too as she keyed her mobile to call in sick for the day. Although she was ambivalent over the fate of Mycroft Holmes, she hoped against hope that he would live for Sherlock’s sake. She didn’t know if any of his friends could make any difference should Mycroft die today.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Molly returned almost immediately with the coffees and pastries, relieved that the doctor had not yet appeared. Greg looked at her gratefully as she handed him the hot drink and food. “Thanks, Molls, I owe you.”

“You are very welcome, Greg, but I expect lemon bars next week hand delivered to the morgue. You owe me…big time.” Greg shrugged and nodded.  Molly would be sure to send him a reminder text as the yarder had a tendency to forget such niceties.

Sherlock was recalcitrant when she forced a large pastry into his hand and poured a healthy dollop of cream into his coffee along with two sugar packets. He opened his mouth to object but found himself looking at the stern and unyielding face of one Dr. Molly Hooper.  “No food, no pill. Either eat or suffer.” He pouted but ate the pastry and drank half of the coffee before Molly relented and gave him just one pill. “You may have another once you eat more and we get you back to Baker Street but not before.” Sherlock was about to say something smart to her when the door opened and the doctor came in.

The room fell silent as they turned their chairs to face the doctor. He was a middle aged man with a careworn but kind face. Molly knew him slightly but just enough to be aware of his name and the fact he was an excellent surgeon. Sherlock’s knee jumped nervously under the table and Molly suppressed the urge reach out her hand and still it. The pain pills would do their work on his body but he needed a physical outlet for his racing mind and troubled emotions. She compromised by gently laying her hand on his arm as the doctor started to speak.

“Your brother was in many ways very lucky. However, he has experienced severe physical trauma and will need to stay in hospital for several weeks. The gunshot to the right thigh missed the major arteries and though it did muscle damage, we stitched him up and the wound should heal normally. Infection is always a possibility and he will be closely watched for any indication of problems. He will need PT to help him regain strength and function in the leg. We are unsure of nerve damage but should know more when he recovers enough to get him on his feet.”

“He also hit his head quite hard and is suffering from a minor concussion. We do not believe the concussion to be serious but may there be minor vision and balance issues when he wakes up.  He will be more thoroughly assessed after he can describe any symptoms. He will have a hell of a headache for a while but again, he was lucky not to have cracked his skull.”

“His most serious injury is to the chest and the bullet collapsed one lung and came very close to nicking an artery. We inserted a tube, repaired the damage as best we could and will watch him for respiratory issues. The bullet missed all major organs and his spinal cord and exited cleanly through his back. Again, there was tissue damage but we cleaned and repaired everything and barring infection, he should fully heal. Please be advised that pneumonia is a possibility and his ability to survive an onset will depend on the strength of his immune system and how well he recovers from his other injuries.”

The doctor paused and directed his gaze to Greg. “The rapid first response of your people saved his life, you know. If your team had not been there, he could have very easily died of asphyxiation or blood loss. The emergency responders were impressed how quickly they had field stabilized him with limited resources. Well done, officer.” Greg pursed his lips and looked at the floor. Not bloody well enough.

The doctor turned his attention back to Sherlock and Molly.  “Your brother is unconscious at this time and will need to stay in critical care. He is breathing on his own and his BP is low but stable. He should wake up within the next five hours if all goes well and we will know more. Do you have any questions?”

Sherlock had said nothing through the doctor’s explanations but his knee had stopped jumping the moment that the doctor had said the word “lucky”.  He now leveled a serious gaze at the doctor and posed his question. “What are his chances of a full recovery and will he experience any deficits?”

“His chances are good, again, mostly thanks to the prompt action of police personnel. As for deficits, it is too early to tell. His full recovery may take months but if all goes well, he should be up and walking in a few days and may be able to leave hospital within ten. He will need full time care for at least two weeks after returning home and part time care for a few more weeks after. Please understand, this scenario holds only if all goes well and it is much too soon to make that call.”

Molly squeezed Sherlock’s arm reassuringly. “May we see him?”

The doctor met her eyes and she could see how bone tired he was. “Yes, but only the two of you and only for five minutes. He is sleeping and I must warn you he doesn’t look very good. The blow he took to his head blackened both of his eyes and he is under fairly heavy sedation.  As I said before, he may regain consciousness within the next five hours. Please leave your mobile numbers with the floor nurse and she will call you if he appears to be waking.”

Face grim, Sherlock held up what was left of his mobile, its screen cracked and casing bent. “It will have to be Molly’s as mine did not come through the fun in the warehouse well. Bugger all, I did not need this today.” He shook his head, leapt to his feet and started to pace again.

The doctor rose as well and looked sternly at Sherlock. “As for you, young man, you should be in hospital as well but since you so stubbornly refused to be admitted, you need to go home after your brief visit and get some rest. You will be no help to your brother in your current state.” Sherlock opened his mouth as if to object when a glower from the doctor and a sharp nudge from Molly stopped him. “I trust you will see him home, Dr. Hooper, and make sure he goes to bed?”

She gave the doctor a tight smile. “Yes, Dr. Morgan, I will make sure he goes home and goes to bed. His flat mate should be home this evening and I will text him to make sure that Sherlock behaves himself. Between the two of us we should be able to keep him down, at least for a while.”

“Excellent and good luck with that one. Now if you have no other questions and will excuse me, I have surgical rounds to make in ten minutes. Hospital staff will be in touch as soon as your brother comes out of sedation. You may see the floor nurse to gain access to your brother’s room.” The doctor rose wearily, shook Sherlock and Molly’s hands and nodded to Greg on his way out.

Greg got up and stretched, his face grim. “I am heading back to the yard to check in and then home to get some sleep. You two stay in touch and let me know what happens with Mycroft.  I knew it would take more than two slugs and a knock on the head to kill that right bastard. I will get with you later in the week to discuss our next move with the cartel. However, given recent events, I think we will stick to consultation only for the time being.”

Greg reached out on his way by to pat Sherlock on the shoulder. “Not your fault, mate. He made the choice to come along and he chose to step in front of you – sounds as if he might care more about you than you might think.  He will recover, I’m sure of it. I’ve seen field officers shot up pretty badly and come through with nary a hitch given time. Mycroft is tough and he will be up and around and tormenting us all again before you know it.” Greg paused and caught Molly’s eye. “Thank again, Molls, for coming so quickly and helping me manage this great git. I owe you more than just some lemon bars and will see you at the lab later this week. Ta all.”

“Bye, Greg.” Molly turned to Sherlock and tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, Sherlock, it’s time to go see your brother.”

Now that the doctor and Greg had gone, Sherlock dropped his façade and leaned heavily into Molly. “I am going to need that second pain pill.”

Her face softened as she looked at her exhausted friend. “I know. Let’s go see Mycroft and I will get you home, feed you up and get you to bed.”

“You’ll stay until John gets back, won’t you?” His voice was pitiful.

Molly wanted nothing more than to go home and fall into her own bed but she nodded. “Yes, Sherlock, I will stay with you until John comes home. I promise. I will sleep on the sofa in the sitting room until I know things are stable.”

Sherlock looked relieved and slung his good arm around her shoulders and kissed her gently on the side of her head. “You are a good friend, Molly Hooper, thank you.”

“And you are a good friend too, you great git. Stop being so nice to me or I really will think you are too badly hurt to leave hospital.” Smiling, she took his hand and they walked through the double doors to the nurse’s station together.

******

The room was dim in spite of it being mid-morning.  Mycroft lay propped up in a hospital bed, his eyes closed and his breath shallow. His face was indeed a site with two huge purple and red hematomas around both eyes. He was milk pale and his small freckles, usually almost unnoticeable, stood out starkly. He looked smaller without his usual three piece wool armor and superior expression. Molly felt a stab of compassion for him. Human after all and severely hurt. He was hooked to several monitors and there was a drip line in the back of one hand. Molly looked carefully at the bags and noted a pain suppressant and saline for hydration. Mycroft had lost a decent amount of blood and the fluids were critical to his recovery.

Molly approached the bed with Sherlock and gently took Mycroft’s wrist in her hand. His skin was warm and soft and his pulse was steady if a bit weak.  He looked horrific but those more obvious signs of injury were mostly superficial and would be gone within a week. The chest wound was of greater concern but unless infection or pneumonia got him, Mycroft should be just fine. The concussion would remain a mystery until he woke up but his brain activity was probably normal or Dr. Morgan would have told them.

She gently replaced Mycroft’s hand and smiled encouragingly at Sherlock who approached the bed to stand by her side to look down at his brother. Not looking at her, started to speak.

“He tried to be a good brother but I pushed him away.  The harder he tried to help me the wilder I became.  He saved my sorry hide more times than I can say and he saved me again last night. I owe him everything and he doesn’t even know.” Sherlock’s nostrils flared and his eyes welled up as he stared at Mycroft’s pale face.

Molly gently put her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and leaned into him. “I think he knows more than you think, Sherlock. Come on, there’s nothing more to be done here and you need your rest. I promise to do whatever I can to help.”

Sherlock stepped forward, bent and gently kissed Mycroft’s cheek. Molly found this action, so unlike him, strangely moving and felt her eyes blur in sympathy. He straightened and turned to Molly with a bleak look on his face.

Molly was silent as she met his eyes as she had nothing more to say. The two brothers would have to work things out on their own.  All she could do now was be there for Sherlock and continue to offer him what help and comfort that she could. Little did she know just how many times she would come to regret those words in the weeks to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been along time without an update on this one but it seems as if my Sherlock muse has returned as I have updated two languishing stories and added yet another. Thank you all for your patience. It's been the year from heck and I've had too many distractions, both good and bad, to keep me from my laptop. 
> 
> I am over the hump on this one and the last transition before I can get down to the real story is out of the way, thank goodness. Now on to Mollcroft, which is the reason for the darned story in the first place.
> 
> Immense thanks to Mark and Steven (you know who you are...) for your patience with fanfiction. Your characters have brought me and many others great joy. Thanks for sharing.

Chapter 3

Molly woke and for a moment she did not know where she was. It took her a moment to orient herself and then she remembered the hospital and accompanying Sherlock home to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had met them at the door and after seeing Sherlock’s pale face and injuries, she told Molly that she would make them both something decent to eat once they both got some sleep. She had patted Molly on the arm and thanked her for looking after him, shaking her head when she heard about Mycroft.

After they limped up the stairs Molly had forced some microwaved and what she perceived to be relatively fresh take-out on Sherlock, given him another pain pill and helped him out of most of his clothes. He was so exhausted he barely noticed her flaming face and awkward hands and was out before she could even cover him up. It had not exactly been her fantasy of undressing Sherlock Holmes but at least she had gotten through it with a modicum of grace. She snagged a blanket from Sherlock’s room and after clearing several piles of books and files off of the sofa, she punched the old union jack pillow into a semblance of acceptable, kicked off her shoes and collapsed. Sleep came quickly in spite of her busy head and even the lumpy sofa was a pleasure after the hard chairs in the hospital.

Sometime later, she woke, stretched and glanced at her mobile. They had finally left the hospital around 10:00 and it was now almost 14:30. They should be hearing something about Mycroft fairly soon. She got up and put the kettle on for tea. Luckily she had visited Baker Street just often enough to roughly know where the tea things were kept. She glanced into the refrigerator and was relieved to see there were no body parts in evidence and that John must have bought fresh milk before he was called away.

Speaking of John, she should text him and ask him to call her. He would want to know about Sherlock as well as Mycroft but she would not break such upsetting news in a text. She would also text her neighbor to check on and feed Toby until she got home. She hoped John’s situation had resolved itself and that he could take over Sherlock’s care. As much as she liked Sherlock, she wasn’t sure how much she would enjoy supervising his convalescence. He would be a right terror in a few days and she did not want to be around to take the pain. John would just tell him to shut up and take a pill but Molly was far too kind hearted and knew she would take his vitriol personally. She had tried to think of him and his moods like weather – arbitrary, hard to predict and nothing at all to do with her – but had limited success with that approach. He was quite capable of inflicting emotional carnage and she wanted none of it if she could help it.

She sighed and pulled a packet of biscuits out of the cupboard. Not exactly fresh but they would have to do.  She put some on a plate, poured herself a mug of tea with milk and sat down to text John and make arrangements for Toby.  She would let Sherlock sleep for now but would call the hospital in another hour if they didn’t call first. She hoped Mycroft would regain consciousness this afternoon but he might not depending on just how hard he hit his head. Dr. Morgan had seemed cautiously optimistic and so Molly would just hope for the best. 

Texts sent Molly had just started to read when she heard a thump in the hall and saw Sherlock, now draped in a dressing gown, go into the loo. She listened for a bit and when she heard the door open, she called down the hall. “Do you want some tea? I will pour you a cup. There are also some biscuits though they aren’t the chocolate ones you like.”

“Fine” he said shortly, dropping into his chair and not meeting her eyes. “Have you called the hospital?”

“No, I wanted to wait for you to get up first.” She handed him his cup and put a plate of biscuits down next to him. “I thought we could call for takeout later.”

He did not respond but sat staring straight ahead sipping his tea. His eyes were hooded and he was obviously thinking.

“Do you…?” Molly started to say when he cut her off.

“No, I do not want anything but your silence. Do what you will but stop bothering me. I need to think. I believe you have a book in your bag. Please read it.” His voice was brusque, he did not even glance at her and though she was tempted to be hurt, she decided to take the high road and ignore his rudeness.

“Fine, I will read, do you want me to call the hospital?” She rose and crossed the room taking a seat as far away from him as possible.

“No, please do shut up and give me an hour.” Dead silence fell and looking at her if realizing for the first time he was being rude, he sighed, moderated his tone and continued, “Forgive me, Molly. I feel like hell and I need to think. My mind is a whirlwind and I need quiet to try to calm it down. I can’t seem to focus and I need to get my emotions under control. Please help me.”

Molly, whose back had been up as she crossed the room, walked back to him and putting a hand on his shoulder, bent and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “For once, you have a legitimate reason for being a tosser. I understand, will read my book and call the hospital later.”

******

Molly, deep into her book, jumped when her mobile vibrated in her cardigan pocket. She glanced at the number on the screen and met Sherlock’s eyes across the room as she picked up. He was instantly on his feet and on high alert. He had groused badly about his ruined mobile in the cab on the way home but in the end it was Molly who had called his carrier to order a replacement. Sherlock had then borrowed her mobile to call one of his homeless network to pick it up and bring it along to Baker Street.

Molly listened carefully while waving Sherlock off, huffing and grumbling, out of her personal space. It was as she had expected, Mycroft was still not conscious though his vitals had stabilized.  She thanked the floor nurse and terminated the call.

Sherlock was on her instantly. “Well?  I take it nothing has changed given the brevity of your conversation and long face.” His face was white and she was amazed that he had not asked for another pain pill.

“Mycroft is still unconscious. I was instructed to call back after the next shift change.” Molly looked briefly at her watch. “The nurse said her shift would be over in four hours.”  

“Blast and damn! Can’t the NHS do a bit better than this? This is not just some unfortunate sod that got shot up in a petty brawl. This is the damned British Government!” He sat in a huff in his grey leather chair, knocking his arm on the shiny metal frame.  His face went white and for a moment Molly thought he might faint. “Bloody hell, I hate this sling!” he violently lashed out with his foot, toppling the already battered side table and a motley collection of books, papers and china spilled across the floor.

Molly jumped again, her already frayed nerves singing. Time for some food, another pain pill and more sleep for Sherlock. She steeled herself and put on her best dealing-with-idiots-in-the-morgue face. “Sherlock!” she barked, “Pull your head out and get control of yourself! You acting like a toddler will change nothing.”

He looked up, surprised, from under stormy eyebrows and when he saw her stern face, the circles under her eyes and her obvious exhaustion, his bad temper sputtered out and he slumped even lower in his chair. His voice was once again pitiful and he almost looked contrite. “Is that tea still warm?”

Molly was relieved that his temper had passed so quickly. “I will bring you a hot cup and call for takeout. Then you can take another pill and try to get some more sleep. By the time you wake up your new mobile should be here and it will be time to call the hospital again.” She paused and her voice softened. “Sherlock, there’s nothing you can do to help Mycroft right now. Dr. Morgan is an excellent physician, the nursing staff at Bart’s is first rate and they would call if there were any change. What you need to do right now is take care of yourself and that means rest, nutrition and tea.”

He sank even lower in his chair, careful now of his injured shoulder and arm. Not meeting her eyes, he nodded once and was silent. Thank goodness reason has prevailed she thought as she turned from the sitting room to refresh the tea and call for delivery Chinese food. When this was over with, she would need to sleep for a week.

******

Molly woke to her mobile vibrating, irritated knocking on the flat door and her neck tweaking from the totally unsatisfactory union jack throw pillow under her head. Did Sherlock own no piece of furniture that wasn’t a torture? Bollocks, all this noise was going to wake him up again and it was still too early to call the hospital.

She looked quickly at her mobile and silenced it. Her mum could wait. She was across the flat in an instant. Mrs. Hudson stood, exasperated, with several bags of take out in her hands. “No one answered the bell so I paid the delivery man. Tell Sherlock the receipt is in the bag and I am putting this food on his tab. That boy will be the death of me if he doesn’t bankrupt me first. Not his housekeeper and definitely not his banker.”

There was another buzz of the downstairs bell. Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and handed off the food to Molly. “Don’t mind me, I am only 80 years old and the stairs do me good.”

Molly watched from the door as Mrs. Hudson descended. She was quite spry for someone in her 80’s. Sherlock had once told Molly once that Mrs. Hudson had been a dancer in her youth. If so, the talent had served her well as she was sure on her feet and her reflexes were quite keen.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door and a scruffy young man stood outside. It was Wiggins and he must have brought Sherlock’s new mobile. Mrs. Hudson shook her head at his appearance but let him in anyway. She met Molly’s eyes from the base of the stairs. “Sorry to be a grump, my dear, but there has just been too many comings and goings today for my taste.” She looked askance at Wiggin’s posterior as he went up. “Young man, would it be too much to ask that the next time you raid a bin for your trousers, you try for a pair that actually fits?”

Wiggins stopped on the stoop and awkwardly pulled up his trousers. “Sorry, Mrs. I don’t think too much about me clothes. I’m covered, ain’t I?” He looked at Molly as if asking for her support and when none was forthcoming, he shrugged and entered the flat.

Mrs. Hudson sent one more disapproving look up the stairs. “Let me know how Mycroft is fairing, not that I like him but for Sherlock’s sake. These Holmes boys and their foibles are enough to drive a person to drink.” Mrs. Hudson sent one more irritated look up the stairs and disappeared into her flat.

Molly was beginning to see Mrs. Hudson’s point but quickly switched focus to Wiggins. “You brought the new mobile?” Wiggins took a sleek new mobile out of his copious jacket pocket and handed it off to her. “All set up and ready to go, contacts and all. Remind him to pay me and Benny. We have been at his beck and call all this afternoon and he has been none too pleasant about it to boot.” He looked aggrieved and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, making them migrate south altogether too far for Molly’s taste. His bright lime green smalls were peeking out of his gaping waistband and Molly averted her eyes.

“Thank you, Wiggins, I will pass your message on to Sherlock. If it makes you feel any better, he has been hard on everyone today. He is very worried about his brother.”

Wiggins opened the door and stood on the stoop. “If Mycroft were my brother, I would worry too but not necessarily about his health. First class creepy, he is.” When Molly did not respond, he cocked his head at her and left the flat with a mournful “Ta, Miss.” Shutting the door, Molly rubbed her eyes, crossed the sitting room and carefully placed the new mobile on the mantel near the skull.

She looked at the couch and bright throw pillow with distaste. Should she bag it and go upstairs to John’s room? Too tired to make a decision, she lay back down on the couch with a sigh. She was so tired now, it didn’t matter. Still two hours before she had to make a call. She arranged the rock hard yet lumpy pillow under her head and pulled the blanket over her head. She would kill the next person to knock on the damned door or ring the bell. With imagined murder on her mind, Molly was asleep again in less than five minutes.

******

There was a thunderous noise of multiple feet on the stairs and waking suddenly, Molly leapt from the couch, the blanket still wrapped around her legs. Too late she realized that she had perhaps gotten up too fast and within seconds she was face down on the worn red Oriental rug looking at some very old crumbs, crumpled wads of discarded paper and feeing like an utter fool. Could this day get any worse?

Still struggling to free herself from her woolen cocoon on the carpet, the door the flat flew open and Greg Lestrade and John Watson burst in. They stopped dead and looked in amazement as Molly, the blanket still half wrapped around her feet and her hair falling out of its braid, blinked at them from the floor.

Reaching down to help her up, Greg’s face was set in concern. “Molls, where’s Sherlock? There is a car waiting and we have to go.”

Now on her feet, she looked at Greg and John in horror. “What do you mean, go?  Go where? Sherlock is in no shape to go anywhere.” She ripped the blanket from her legs and tossed it back on the couch. “John, you haven’t seen him. He needs to rest and can’t travel. Make this idiot copper see reason, please?”

John looked at her sympathetically but his face was fixed with resolve. “Sorry, Molly, but he has to come. A call just came in to the Yard with a lead on the cartel. It came from the continent and Sherlock has too much of the data in his head. We can’t chase down these bloody sods abroad without him.”

Molly opened her mouth to object when Sherlock’s voice interrupted the argument. “John, come help me get dressed and pack a bag.” He threw a look that was both determined and pleading towards Molly. “Please, Molly. Give John the pain meds and hand me my new phone. You know it is no use to try and stop me.”

He stepped right up to Molly, put his one good arm around her and before she could pull away, he bent and kissed her cheek. “Please? For me?”  

Molly shook him off careful not to jostle his injured arm. “You are a bloody, stupid bastard, but I am outnumbered.” She shot a filthy look at Greg and John, not knowing how her crazy hair made her glare mostly ineffective. She dug the pain meds out of her bag and retrieved the phone from the mantel, handing them off to Lestrade.

“I am washing my hands of this whole mess and am going home. Please don’t kill Sherlock and keep safe yourself. I think you are a lot of stupid gits but I give up.” Softening, she gave John a hug and whispered in his ear. “He really is hurting, in more ways than one. Take care of him for me.” She gave Greg the stink eye and punched him in the arm none too gently as she swept up her bag and coat.

“Goodbye and good luck. If at any time either of you manage to think of me, please text to let me know everyone is still breathing.” Sherlock and John nodded and disappeared down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom. She gave Greg one more withering look, but tempered it with a quick hug and a muttered “Tosser…” on her way out the door.

The minute she hit the street, she felt a huge weight lift from her shoulders. Sherlock was someone else’s problem now and though she would still worry, she knew John would take good care of him. She waved down a cab, gave the cabby her address and had just settled in for the trip back to her flat when her mobile vibrated.

Sherlock, of course. Had she forgotten to bin the tea bags or put away the fried rice properly? She answered warily. “Hullo, Sherlock. Didn’t we just say goodbye?”

There was a long pause and Sherlock’s voice was uncertain and vulnerable on the other end of the line. “Mycroft. You have to look after Mycroft for me. Mummy and Da are out of town and there is no one else. Please say you will Molly, I need to know that someone competent is looking out for him.”

Molly sighed. How did she just know this was coming? “Yes, Sherlock, I will look out for Mycroft. I will text you if anything changes but will make sure to check on him daily.” There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Sherlock? Sherlock, are you still there?”

There was a tremor in his voice and it fell even lower in tone. “Thank you, Molly. You don’t know how much your support means to me. Thank you.”

Molly knew that voice. It was the real Sherlock voice. The voice he had used with her in the morgue so long ago when he had no one to turn to but her. It was the voice that had wished her a merry Christmas after eviscerating her at that ghastly party. It was the gentle and grateful voice of one of her dearest friends.

“Take care, Sherlock.” she whispered and terminated the call. She leaned back, closed her eyes, still clutching the now silent phone in her hand. She cared so deeply about him, could she care just as deeply about his bastard brother? Only time and her promise to Sherlock would tell.

 


End file.
